He blew out a breath. ‘Good. For a moment I feared he might have misused you. He was entirely capable of such behaviour.’
‘But I read of him in the newspapers, of course.’ The papers never used full names when spreading scandal and gossip, but everyone knew of whom they wrote.
They passed the stable and two other small buildings whose purpose she did not know. The road was lined with shrubbery, bright green with new leaves. Buttercups and heartsease dotted the lawn beyond. Should she describe them to him? Or would it make it worse to know that spring bloomed all around and he could not see it?
He spoke. ‘You never said how long ago your husband died.’
Why must he persist in this interrogation?
She might as well answer. ‘A little over three years ago.’
‘Three years ago?’ His voice rose in surprise. ‘I thought you said it was a long time.’
‘It seemed like a long time to me.’ So much had happened to her since, even if most of it had occurred in her mind and emotions. Her marriage seemed like a dream in comparison.
‘How did it happen?’ he asked.
‘How did what happen?’
He made an exasperated sound. ‘Your husband’s death.’
‘Oh.’ Of course. ‘He fell from his horse.’
He’d been with her one minute and dead the next. She’d gone through mourning, but had she grieved his loss? She feared not.
What sort of wife did not grieve her husband’s death, especially a man who had been good to her?
Faville had always loved her. He’d loved her as a man loved a prized possession or a precious jewel. At the convent she’d realised there had been a man behind all that devotion, a man with his own needs and emotions. He’d given her far more than she’d given him. Instead, she’d filled her head with fantasies of Xavier Campion—husband of this man’s sister.
She ought to tell him. Tell him now.
But he would hate her if she did. She could not bear it, knowing a man in her house, under her care, hated her. She hated herself enough.
‘Why did you not marry, Mr Westleigh?’ she asked brightly. Flirtatiously. Such skills as turning the conversation in the direction she desired were her forte—or had been once.
He answered in a bantering tone. ‘I was mostly fighting Napoleon. Not a good time to start a courtship.’
‘But the war has been over for years now.’
‘I did not sell out until 1818,’ he explained. ‘Then my brother discovered my father had put our family at the brink of ruin. That certainly did not make me a good marriage prospect.’
She’d had no idea. Gossip about the Westleighs’ financial woes had never reached the newspapers. ‘The brink of ruin?’
‘We were in danger of losing it all. The River Tick was lapping at our toes, you might say. Debt collectors were mere minutes from our door.’ He stepped on a rock she’d neglected to warn him about and she had to hold tighter to his arm—his well-muscled arm—so he could catch his balance.
‘We should turn around.’ They were at the end of the road where it intersected with the road to Thurnfield. When they walked a few steps back towards the house she dropped her flirtatious tone, truly interested now. ‘You said you were in danger of losing your money. You didn’t lose it, then?’
‘We were rescued. We scraped together every pound we could get our hands on and convinced our half-brother to run a gaming house for us.’ His voice brightened. ‘He—Rhysdale—had a brilliant idea. He called the place the Masquerade Club and made it so men and women could gamble there in masks and protect their identity. Ladies are able to attend without risking their reputations.’
Daphne felt the blood drain from her face. How could she have attended the Masquerade Club all those weeks and not have known its connection to the Westleighs?
‘Was—is—the gaming house successful?’ It must be. When she’d attended, there had always been a crush of people, all throwing away their money to the roll of the dice or a turn of a card.
‘Successful beyond our imagining,’ he responded. ‘The Westleigh fortune is restored and is growing by the day.’
Daphne had never gambled heavily when she’d attended the Masquerade Club. She’d been too obsessed with making Xavier Campion admit he loved her.
But it had not been she whom Xavier loved.
She’d first seen him in a ballroom when she’d been twenty years old. A beautiful young man, the most beautiful young man she had ever seen, the sort of man who’d inspired the Greeks to make statues. His dark hair and skin had been the perfect counterpoint to her pale, blonde beauty. And even his magnetic blue eyes were the equal of hers. She’d thought that meant they were destined to be together, that they were the perfect lovers, an exquisite pair beautifully matched.
But her husband separated them before they became lovers and Daphne spent years dreaming of a reunion with Xavier. Ten foolish years.
Her head pounded with the memory. Enough of this foolishness. He was nothing but a dream, a fancy. And at the moment she walked beside a very real man, about whom she still knew so little.
‘And—and is your half-brother still running this gaming house for you?’ she asked to keep him talking.
‘Yes, he is.’
She’d heard of Rhysdale, of course. Xavier had been his friend and had managed the gaming house in Rhysdale’s absence. Had he known he was a half-brother to the Westleighs?
She glanced at the man beside her, who seemed lost in thought.
Finally he spoke. ‘Of all the family, Rhys is the best. Well, he and Phillipa, I suppose.’
Phillipa. Yes. Phillipa. A better woman than Daphne, certainly.
Westleigh went on. ‘Rhys was my father’s natural son, you see. I grew up despising him, but he saved us when we needed him. He had every reason not to.’
‘Do you despise him now?’ One could despise a person yet concede his worth at the same time. Was he such a man?
‘Not at all,’ he responded. ‘I hold Rhys in the highest regard. He makes me ashamed of myself.’
They had that in common, then.
‘Well, it is what you do today that matters the most,’ she said. ‘You cannot undo the past, but you can learn from it.’ Had not the abbess told her this many times?
‘Oh, I have learned from it,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t expect Rhys will change his mind about me, though. We have established a sort of truce, at least, which is more than I deserve.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I was horrible to him when we were boys. Taunted him until he’d fight with me. I liked nothing better than a good bout of fisticuffs. I was a wild boy, I’m afraid. Still am.’
‘Do you still like fisticuffs?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t back down from a fight....’ He groaned. ‘Listen to me ramble on about myself. Soon I will be confessing to you all the mistakes of my youth.’
‘I am not certain our walk will be that long.’
He laughed, a deep and resonant laugh that made her insides flutter. ‘I might need all of our two weeks, at least.’ His smile turned genuine. ‘Never fear. I will not burden you, not with all my sins, in any event.’
Her cheeks burned. She was unaccustomed to making people truly laugh.
His cane caught on a thick root and again she held him tightly until he regained his footing. She’d almost forgotten he could not see.
‘Now it is your turn,’ he said.
‘My turn?’
‘To confess the sins of your childhood.’ He added, ‘Unless you were an obedient, compliant little girl.’
She had certainly not been that. ‘I was a trial, I confess.’ More painful memories. ‘I was not quick to learn things.’
‘I do not believe it,’ he said. ‘You do not strike me as an unintelligent woman.’
‘I suppose I was adequate at my lessons, but I often forgot how to sit properly, how to smile—things like that.’
He shook his head. ‘Are you making another jest?’
‘No.’ She’d said nothing foolish.
Her mother had often chastised her, admonishing her to stand up straight, to walk as if gliding, to smile, to pour tea gracefully, to lean towards a gentleman so her figure showed to best advantage. Her face would only carry her so far, her mother insisted. She must be beautiful and affect a pleasing manner. So Daphne had practised being pleasing, over and over, until it had become second nature. The training had borne fruit, too. She’d become betrothed to Viscount Faville in her first Season and married him quickly afterwards.
But she did not want to admit to Westleigh that attributes a gentleman might think natural were really only the result of proper training.
She averted her gaze. ‘I was not jesting.’
He blew out a breath. ‘I dare say a boy’s upbringing differs greatly from a girl’s.’
‘You should know because of your sister.’ Surely Phillipa Westleigh had endured the same training. How much more important it would have been for her.
‘I was enough older than my sister to pay little attention,’ he said. ‘But likely her upbringing was unique. Her face was scarred when she was small. She grew up disfigured.’
Daphne recalled the cruel words she’d spoken to Phillipa at the Masquerade Club and cringed in shame. Now she could only think what it would have been like to have so visible a disfigurement.
‘How difficult for her,’ she managed.
‘I suppose it was.’ He pounded the ground ahead of him with the cane. ‘In a way it freed her.’
‘Freed her?’ She did not comprehend.
‘She could not be expected to follow the usual course of an earl’s daughter. The Marriage Mart and all. Instead, she became an accomplished pianiste. Do you know her musical compositions have been performed at Vauxhall and other places?’
What an accomplishment. Phillipa had played beautifully. She’d composed music, as well?
‘You sound very proud of your sister.’ Daphne envied her. Who had ever been proud of her, except for her marrying well? What had she ever accomplished?
‘I am. She does what she wishes to do, no matter what. That is what I will do, as well.’ His voice dropped. ‘As soon as the bandages are off.’
‘You will travel, then. Is that not correct, Mr Westleigh?’ They’d spoken of it at dinner.
‘Yes.’ His voice tightened.
It all depended upon whether or not his eyes healed.
Chapter Seven
After they re-entered the house, Hugh put no further claim on Mrs Asher’s time. He asked for the services of the new footman to walk with him around the house. Perhaps if he walked the space enough times, he’d be able to navigate on his own and not disrupt the routine of the servants or Mrs Asher—although if he had his way, he’d commandeer all of her time.
Instead, Toller, the new footman, was placed at his disposal. Toller was a cheerful, chatty young man who seemed perfectly content to walk with Hugh from Hugh’s bedchamber, down the stairs, to the drawing room and to the dining room—over and over—all the while telling Hugh about his family, the village, the maids and Mr and Mrs Pitts.
‘That Monette is a pretty thing,’ Toller went on. ‘But I do not suppose I will see much of her, her being a lady’s maid and all. She’s probably above my touch, in any event.’
Monette, Toller had told him, was Mrs Asher’s lady’s maid who had come with her from Switzerland. The footman knew nothing else about her, though, and Hugh had not encountered her here—although he’d done once. In the fire.
‘What of Mr Asher?’ Hugh might as well turn the man’s garrulity to matters of which he was truly curious. ‘What was he like?’
‘Mr Asher?’ Toller sounded puzzled. ‘I don’t rightly know.’
Bad luck. ‘Did you come to Thurnfield after he died?’
‘I have lived in Thurnfield my whole life,’ Toller responded with pride. ‘There is nothing I do not know about it.’
‘Then how do you not know of Mr Asher?’
‘Can’t know of him as he was never in Thurnfield,’ Toller said. ‘At least he never lived here. He might have passed through. Many folks pass through on their way to London.’
‘Mr Asher never lived here?’
‘Not in Thurnfield,’ the footman insisted.
Had she lived separately from her husband? ‘How long has Mrs Asher lived here, then?’
‘About three days,’ Toller answered.
Three days?
Toller kept talking. ‘She drove into town looking for somebody to take care of you or someplace she could stay to care for you. Well, the inn was full of people from Ramsgate. There was a fire there, I was told. Maybe the one where you injured your eyes?’ He didn’t wait for Hugh to answer. ‘Anyway, no one wished to take on the charge of caring for a sick man without knowing if he could pay, and you couldn’t travel any farther, so Mrs Asher leased the cottage here. The previous tenants were a navy man and his wife. They left about a month ago. The place has been empty since.’
They reached the stairway again.
Hugh rested a hand on the banister. ‘Do you mean Mrs Asher was just passing through? She never meant to live here, then?’
‘That I could not say for certain,’ Toller replied. ‘But Mr Brill, the leasing agent, said she asked for two weeks, but he would not lease for so short a time, so she paid for three months.’
She paid for three months? Why?
And why tell him she lived here?
But did she ever say she lived here? Hugh strained to recall.
He turned his head towards where he thought Toller stood. ‘Let us go back upstairs to my room, then I will free you from playing nursemaid.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Toller said agreeably.
Hugh ascended the stairs with more confidence than when they’d started the practice. He was becoming more accustomed to using the cane. With being unable to see.
At his bedchamber door he thanked the footman. ‘This was excellent, Toller. I could not have done it without you. I’m in your debt.’
He’d pay the man a generous vail at the end of his stay. He’d be generous to all the servants, since he was the sole reason they’d been hired, apparently.
Why had Mrs Asher not simply told him she’d taken the house to take care of him? That she’d been required to pay ahead for time she’d not use? Where had she been bound, then? Where was her home?
He was reasonably certain there was no malevolence in her subterfuge, although at first he’d been suspicious of her. She clearly had nothing to gain from assuming his care. All she could gain was his money, but she obviously had money of her own.
Was she simply possessed of a kind heart? Or had she believed she owed it to him because he’d carried her out of the fire? Why, then, not simply order her servants to care for him?
She was a mystery.
She possessed an adept conversational skill that she used to conceal more than she revealed. She swung from the superficial to a hint of deep sadness.
She intrigued him in other ways, as well. Her musical voice, the scent of roses when she was near, her soft hand. Touching her face had been arousing, more arousing than he liked to admit.
He wanted to see her, know her, discover what she needed to so carefully hide. Was that the source of her unhappiness? He could not simply ask her. He wanted to know about her life, about her husband. Had she loved him? Had her husband been good to her? Had there been other men besides him? And what had she been doing, travelling alone on the Continent? Was he correct in his guess that
she’d hid herself away to have a baby?
He probably had no right to know such personal matters, but he did deserve to know why she had taken such charge of him and gone to all this trouble and expense as a result. He’d discover that much this night. Or at least confront her with what he knew.
* * *
That evening Daphne found Westleigh waiting in the drawing room before dinner. Like the night before, she poured him wine. He seemed preoccupied, disturbed. About his blindness, she guessed.
He responded to her efforts at chitchat with an economy of response, although he did accept a second glass of wine. Her mood darkened. Gone was the ease they’d achieved during their walk. Why? She missed it most dreadfully.
Finally Carter announced that dinner was served.
Westleigh took his cane in one hand and stood. He offered her his arm. ‘May I escort you in to dinner?’
What was this? The previous night she’d had to carefully lead him to the room.
It sounded like an order, not an invitation, so she took his arm.
He walked almost directly to the door. She guided him to correct his course, else they might have hit the wall.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his words clipped. ‘Tomorrow I will do better.’
‘You are doing very well.’ She used a placating voice.
He continued to confidently cross the hall to the dining room, although his manner was a bit determined. He led her to the doorway almost as if he could see and found her chair with equal ease.
He pulled it out for her. ‘I commandeered Toller to help me learn how to traverse the house. We walked it a number of times until I could envisage the floor plan and not run into furniture.’
‘How very clever of you.’
He glowered. ‘You need not do that.’
She did not know what he meant. ‘Do what?’
‘Speak in your governess voice,’ he snapped.
Her heart pounded. ‘My what?’
‘That governess voice, as if you were talking to a schoolboy. You use it often.’
Speak with your heart, the abbess had repeatedly told her. It is your true voice. Daphne still did not know what that meant.
A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) Page 8